Winnie Gets Hard

My brother is dead. But the Show Must Go On. Then Pooh shows his honey roll.

When Gary dies, the Naked Dad's accusations are not the only ones ripping apart the family fabric, such as it is, a kind of Taffeta cum Denim cum Orlon.

My mother accuses me of not caring that Gary is dead, when, a year and a half later, I throw a tantrum over her refusal to allow me to take driving lessons - an entirely understandable reaction on her part given how Gary dies.

She says I have a cold, frozen heart.

The next morning, before leaving for work, she comes into my room and hugs me, tears in her eyes, saying she doesn't mean any of it. She loves me. She is genuinely sorry that she has said that to me, but I think at the time, deep down, she does mean it. And I think she is right. I do have a frozen heart. Later, long after his death, a deep well of pain and loneliness about losing Gary surfaces in me, but at the time on a surface level, I don't know how to feel anything about it. It isn't real. The generally accepted line of reasoning in my family, from all sides, is that I am selfish, completely wrapped up in my own accomplishments and exploits. They don't get it. It isn't selfishness. I am a fortress.

My grandmother, Beelzebubbe nee Buddie, makes the most far-reaching accusation. She blames God and the entire universe for taking away everyone in her life that she ever loves. Gary is her favorite. I am the understudy, but I am happy to have the chance to play the lead. That is when I become her favorite.

Gary's death dovetails nicely with my ongoing creation of self. I already make shameless use of my violent and strange upbringing. Now I can claim the martyrdom of a tragic figure. It is a badge of honor. It makes me special. I see it as a life-altering event that will grow into being part of my legacy and legend. Even when bad things happen, especially so, the power of self-invention and transformation prevails. I will not feel his death. I will not feel my disconnection. I will not feel love. I will teach myself to throw away happiness with both hands should it ever have the temerity to approach.

Since "Winnie the Pooh" opens so soon after Gary's death, it becomes important to everyone in the extended mess we call a family to attend in a gesture of togetherness. The effort touches me. It does. The problem is I know the show sucks and I am deeply embarrassed that some of them will be seeing me perform for the first time in it. I am right to worry. When I leave for New York three years later my uncle who with his wife sort of helps me make the move, is brutally honest about believing my chances of making it as an actor are negligible, citing the unimpressive "Winnie the Pooh."

Maybe his assessment of my comedic abilities would be more positive if time is turned back and he can see the memorable night when Pooh has a hard-on. One of the adult stagehands strokes me before I go on. I am not wearing a dance belt.

The audience who sees it falls out of their chairs laughing.